Ladies and gentlemen, it has come to my attention that there is an astounding connection between the male jellybelly (or in layman’s terms: fat) and a certain little medical procedure.

How do I know this? Because the human font of knowledge told me so this evening as he sat down munching on a cream-filled Krispy Kreme donut.

“Well...” he announced, “I know why I’m gettin’ fat!”

I watched with a questioning eye as he swigged down a half bottle of Coke in between the three bites it took to polish off that heart-clogging confection.

“Really? Pray tell, what’s the reason?” I asked, arms folded neatly across my own little knapsack of bellyfat.

“Well,” he said, licking his fingers off and smacking loudly after each one.

That’s right, honey, get all that sugar and grease. I’d hate to see it go to waist ... I mean, waste.

“I was up fixin’ that guy’s sink this afternoon ... you know, the one up in the apartment complex?” Smack smack.

Of course I don’t know ... my circle of life is the elementary school and Wal-Mart.

But I went ahead, “Yeah..I know.”

“Well, he had the cutest little schnauzer ... really cute little dog. And he mentioned to me that the dog used to be the trimmest little thing ... like a little show dog. Then he got the dog fixed.”

Ah ha! Seems like Nostradamus mentioned that connection in one of his quatrains.

“What do you mean ... the dog got snipped?”

He nodded, reaching around the lazy susan that his recliner sits on for another little snack to feed on.

“So,” I said, “what? You think that because that little dog got snipped and got fat, the reason you’re tubbin’ up is because you got snipped, too?”

Really. Seriously.

“Mmmhm,” he said, bending over the arm of the chair til his hair brushed the carpet. He rustled around a minute and pulled out a family-sized sack of Fritos Scoops. Upon straightening back up into the chair, he did a quick left-right twist of the head and said, “We got any sour cream?”

I nodded and heaved up outta my chair to fetch Dr. Who his sour cream.

I handed it to him and sat back down.

“So, let me get this straight. You think that the nip/tuck you got eight years ago is the reason why you are getting fat right now. Is that right?”

He nodded as a glob of sour cream hung at the corner of his mouth. No need to tell him, he’d catch it with another Frito.

“You don’t think it’s because of the Big Momma’s blackberry pancake breakfast you have at Cracker Barrel every Sunday...”

He tried not to smile.

“You don’t think it’s because of that 10-ounce bagel with eight ounces of cream cheese you have the rest of the week for breakfast, or the three-pound bacon fry-up with two eggs, fried taters and melted cheese that you’re so fond of.”

He tried to sink his chin deeper into his chest, hiding his face with that big ol Frito bag.

“I don’t suppose it could be that box of 40 count ice-cream sandwiches that calls out to you in the middle of the night from the freezer.”

No answer.

“Or the 10-pound tray of fudge that sits on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. You reckon it might be that five pound bag of Lindt milk chocolate truffles you bought at Sam’s Club? Oh no, wait ... that’s right. Seems like you mentioned something about being a metabolic miracle when it comes to sugar.”

Now, this is a man who doesn’t like Little Debbie cakes, but will go to hell and back to get a Raspberry Zinger, the most vile snack cake ever invented. He once pulled off the highway to unwrap a Zinger, his hands shakin’ so fiercely with the mere anticipation of it, then downed it with a Dew. I had to tell him “Red Bull is so much more convenient.”

So I sat there, rockin’ back in forth in my recliner, thinkin’ about this medical mystery and how it would change the course of so many lives.

“So I guess havin’ my tubes tied would explain my weight gain then ... is that it?”

He gave a little half smile and a shrug, catchin’ that little glob of sour cream with a Frito.

I took that as a yes.

I got up out of my chair and he said, “Where’re you goin’?”

“I gotta beat you to that last donut...”